He claimed he’d traveled across the Sundered Sea, even as far south as Amandor, the Southern Continent. Ancient lore told tales ofothermages there called the Verdant...an entire bloodline of people long disappeared from this realm.
Kinlear liked to imagine, somewhere out there, the Verdant still existed.
Perhaps Magus even was one.
He laughed inwardly at that, as the old man whistled a tune beside him, and more birds landed on his shoulders and head, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Shall I leave you to wallow in self-pity?” Magus asked him now. “Or would you like to discuss something of true worth today?”
He sniffed the air, as Kinlear cleaned the bird waste from his shoulder. “Like what?”
More servants skirted past, carrying baskets full of perfectly ripened fruit and vegetables. They always averted their gazes when they saw Kinlear and his tutor...as if it werecatchableto wield a cane.
“We’re not diseased,” Kinlear said beneath his breath.
Though...actually, he supposedhewas.
“Not I,” Magus said, confirming his thoughts. “But everyone suffers from something, Little Prince.”
It would have been nice if the healers had put a name to Kinlear’s illness, but alas, he supposed it made him more of a mystery within.
Magus’s history was a mystery, too...for the man wasn’t born without his sight. He’d told Kinlear as much, but never the full tale of what happened to cause it.
“So,” Kinlear asked. “What will we learn today?”
“We’ll practice silence,” Magus said. “Something you struggle to achieve. Sit in the beauty of this day, Little Prince, and I’ll speak when my next words are ready.”
So together they sat, as a delicate, magical wind stirred the trees around them. The air was thick with fragrant flowers and fruit ripening just in time for the queen to open the palace gates.
It would happen tomorrow, when everyone from near and far traveled to Touvre to fill their baskets with rations. The shadow wolves were doing their best to ruin every viable crop in the kingdom. Kinlear often went with his mother to help. To see the faces of his people...all of whom had lost something in this endless war.
He wanted to be a part of it, like Arawn and Soraya.
He didn’t want to justsit.
“Well?” Kinlear asked. “I’m ready, Magus.Please.”
He removed his Scribe’s blade, eager to begin working on something more aggressive, like combative runes. He’d need them when he went back north, where hopefully, he would be assigned to help prepare Arawn for battle.
It took blood to inscribe...which always stole a bit too much of Kinlear’s strength. More than he liked to admit, but it was the best he could offer his kingdom. The true act of fighting in war wouldneverbe meant for him.
But as he lifted his blade, Magus placed a hand upon his arm. “No blade. Today, we discuss a different sort of weapon: your dreams.”
Kinlear sighed.
He’d told Magus about them weeks ago, in a moment of frustration. He’d utterlygiven upon how best to save himselffrom his nightly death. It had all started when he’d fallen asleep in class, and Magus had refused to teach him another damned thing until Kinlear told him thetruth.
And that was the other thing about the old man.
He always seemed to know when people were lying.
“I sleep, I die,” Kinlear said now. “The same as it’s always been.”
“And your monster?” Magus asked, cocking his head. Somehow the flock of finches still perched there managed to stay on.
“Hooded. Clawed. Smells like a corpse left to rot in the sun,” Kinlear said. “Always the same, Magus. Can we move onto runes now?”
“The monster,” Magus pressed. “Tell me, again, what it is chasing youtowards.”
